The Case Of The Concrete Floor
by AgnosticAngel
Summary: -Featuring Sherlock, L and Batman- A series of murders is sweeping through London, and no criminal in London's harsh underground is safe. The country's greatest detective, cannot find the culprit. It's down to two outsiders to stop the killer.


**T****he ****C****ase of the ****C****oncrete ****F****loor:**

Baker Street lay silent in the cool mid-autumn breeze. Speckled and coloured leaves fell to the cold stone slabs of London; smothering the drab architecture and litter in a pleasant canvas of reds, yellows, and browns. A subtle trail of footsteps disturbed the recently fallen leaves, those of a mid-height curly haired consulting detective and his accomplice. Sherlock Holmes found himself at last at a dark wooden door set within the concrete floor of the small tool shed outside 26 Maple Crescent. Abrasively, the door swung open and hit the narrow wall with a loud thud. Watson winced at the volume, at any moment expecting to see the flashing blue glare which would signal the end of their plight.

Silent as a whisper; the night-black helicopter soared forwards through the atmosphere, slicing through the air towards the target. A tall figure pulled on a hood, hooking his harness onto the door. The circular icon on the high-resolution map blinked twice, and a low bleep signalled that he had arrived at his destination. Bruce silently counted in his mind.

"_Four elephants... three elephants... two elephants... one elephant... Now!" _The open door beckoned him as the silhouette jumped out of the window at 290 kilometres per hour; the cord tearing his parachute out and giving him a slight nudge towards his landing zone: Maple park road. The trees brushed past his face as Batman landed with a soft bump, wincing from the pain in his knees as an air bubble popped. He longed for the days when it was just his piano-honed fingers that experienced this. With a sharp tug he pulled the cord, mechanically yanking the wide microfibre-canvas back into his suit. The global positioning system installed into his wrist guard signalled him to move south towards the Crescent but he was already ahead of it, his eidetic memory recalling the maps he studied on the journey. He flashed back on his mission statement: Find the killer. Capture or kill him. Batman disregarded the last part in his constant moral turmoil, refusing to stoop to the level of so many others he brought to justice. The streetlight were few and far between in this area of suburbs; a few circular patches of light defying the void all around. Batman flourished in this lack of light, feeling safer than most in the protection and cover. Carefully counting and approaching the back of number 23, a quick voice command deactivated each LED describing status of the suit's components and the GPS screen faded to dark. Now he was invisible.

John Watson was told each time to keep watch, and each time refused. He had grown past knuckling under Sherlock's every whim, and was about halfway towards being treated as an equal. Creeping down a narrow staircase the duo, after several metres of climbing, touched a reassuring hard surface. Watson turned to see his colleague almost out of sight, having surged ahead as always seemingly unaware of any dangers lying in wait. He let out a barely audible snigger at the irony of this. With the heavy pistol clinging to his belt, he jogged forwards to catch up. After what in the dimly lit cavern felt like minutes, but what could only have been about ten seconds, John joined Sherlock in the sub-basement of 26 Maple Crescent. The air had a strong musty scent; and a slight hint of something sharp under countless layers of air freshener. Sherlock began again with his lightning-quick deductions, smothering Watson's ears in his workings-out. It was either of mild delirium induced from the slightly toxic air freshener choking the recycled air, or just lack of sleep, but he simply tuned out of some of Holmes' sentences, his mouth a blur of skin.

"I detect a distinct odour of acetic acid beneath the..." He pondered for a moment, "Oust, a sizeable vat of morphine and a small laboratory worth of equipment; seemingly in incomplete extraction of heroin. This is definitely the source. This basement supplies the entire drug trade for southern London... This seems to be a point B at which morphine is stolen... nearby hospital storage facility in... Extracted, then circulated around the gangs of London town." The moderately autistic consulting detective walked towards what looked like the opening of a large pipe, calling into it. An echo resounded for a while, before Sherlock inspected the conveyor taking up the width and the book-sized compartments attached at metre long intervals. At the sight of the powder packed into sterile plastic bags around it, Watson snapped back to attention. "Slightly ingenious... They're using a derelict, abandoned water pipe to transport their 'goods' in a purpose-built conveyor that splits off towards approximately seven different locations judging by the number of times the echo sounded. The pipe is 40, 50 years old yet the conveyor has no more than 4 years of wear on it. Far underground, this explains how the heroin trade's source lay undetected for so long. The tip off from Dan was perfectly accurate." Sherlock then pressed a button; and the conveyor whirred to life, accompanied by the eerie flash of a silent alarm as a door high above flew open. Down came three people from the spiral staircase going up to the house above as John go in position. Sherlock threw a knife into a delicate-looking laboratory device, a screensaver showing on the nearby monitor. After a shower of sparks the computer attached went into blue screen to the dismay of the gang members. This few seconds of distraction was all Watson needed to pull out his pistol and with his finely-honed army standard marksmanship swiftly put an end to the trio of criminals. Watson opened his backpack and retrieved the explosive charges and nitroglycerin. He and Holmes spread them out; taking care to saturate the bodies, drugs and lab equipment in the substance; and when finished Watson retrieved the finishing touch: A wireless detonator. Handing it to Sherlock, he spied the time on the display.

"1:14am GMT. One minute and fifteen seconds ahead of schedule."

"Wire it now!" John interjected, "Before they start to wonder why the conveyor's on with no drugs coming." After a short series of bleeps, Sherlock set the detonator down on top of one of the bulky, oily corpses of the drug suppliers. The crimson LED display read two minutes, counting down fast. The rush and sweet intoxication of their latest murder spurred the partners on as they fled back up the ladder, into the open. They took little notice of the subtly reflective fish-eye camera lens hidden in plain view.

Batman flitted towards the drab wooden shed, cautiously expecting at any moment to be struck. He reached for the lock gun from his utility belt, before noticing that the door was ajar. Swinging it open, he was met by the sight of a common or garden tool shed, perfectly commonplace except for the mat lying in the centre of the cold hard concrete floor. Removing it, he found a wooden trapdoor, several splinters protruding from the surface. It fell open with a light push and a plume of acrid smoke billowed out, temporarily blinding him and sending Batman into a mild coughing fit. He pulled a capsule from his belt, pressing the top and a spray of compressed oxygen was inhaled.

"_Hi-tech asthma pump_," he chuckled darkly to himself. He attached the fine clip to the side of his mask to oxygenate him at the touch of a button, before venturing into the void below. After a minute he was in the cavern and turned on his night-vision visor. All that was left was a fading heat signature from a cluster of bodies, near the white-hot remains of a detonator scattered about them. He picked one shard up, taking care not to burn himself. There was a time burned into a glass screen covered in parts of a metal casing- 01:16. This was just a few moments before New Scotland Yard received a volume of calls about an explosion. Any doubt that he could be in the wrong place faded. Nobody in the police force dared risk running into the London Gang Killers since the last two times; when the remaining fumes chocked a squad to death; so the only person who would brave the night was him. Bruce scolded himself on timing his business trips at the exact wrong moments. There was another piece with small button holes blown out; with the traces of latex marks, and old fingerprints noticeable when Batman changed the filter to a specific wavelength. He scanned it and Oracle put it into the UK fingerprint database. The few prints matched with two people: Simon and Jonas Thompson. Two gangsters and explosive dealers recently investigated and arrested by- Sherlock Holmes, he thought with a jolt. Only he would have had an opportunity to take the detonator, and such a large amount of explosives. He understood now. Dropping the evidence back to the crime scene, Batman set off, his new goal burning in his mind.

Replaying the footage over and over on the screen; the hunched genius rubbed together his feet for warmth. Sipping a cup of tea, his sleep deprived eyes grew wide as he confirmed his suspicions.

"Watari... It seems my interpretation of the CCTV footage from the last mass murder was correct. The assailants ran from the drug shipping hub; cloaked and masked but their walking patterns uncovered. It was a simple matter for me to make the link between that and the knowledge of Sherlock Holmes from his many video blogs: Perfect matches for him and his blogger, a John Watson. I kept a close eye on them ever since he replaced an alias of mine, Eraldo Coil as a top-three detective in the world. As I observed he suffers from a moderate obsessive compulsive disorder. He wears a different shirt for each day of the week according to his photos' dates. It was a simple matter to install a buttonhole camera in his Friday shirt; as he only attacks on this day. Possibly to make matters more... amusing for himself when he attempts to catch the killers by day." The screen was still playing the dire scene of soaking a gangster's body in explosives and planting a detonator. This footage continued though; following behind Holmes out of the lab, through a tunnel and away from the crime scene as an explosion rumbled behind them. L pressed a button under the monitor, the figures onscreen speeding forwards as the button commanded. They stopped after a short time; beginning a live video feed from an unmistakeable location. One L had seen many times before. The warm, nostalgic glow of Wammy's House stood against the darkness. L gasped, partially from concern, mostly from disbelief. L had come to London for the sole purpose of taking his bi-annual visit to the orphanage; only staying to investigate the recent murders. L instantly made the connection. Something in Sherlock must have snapped, the boredom that drove him to kill seeping into bloodlust. He would know the true purpose of the establishment. And he would want to keep all the interesting cases for himself. With a growing sense of urgency, he cried out. "Watari! We have to get to the car. Now!" Knowing better than to question his intellect, he obediently complied. L shut down the large computer, swiped out a memory stick from the USB port, sipped the last of his tea, and hurried out after his mentor.

Clambering out of the trapdoor; his lunch still reeling slightly from the smoke, Batman reactivated his suit, the various lights and support systems swiftly coming back online. After a few minutes in the cavern, his GPS read 1:58am. The killers cannot be far away. He altered a series of touch-sensitive sliders on his wrist computer, the visor over his eyes altering their brightness sensitivity, wavelength tuning, and depth perception. Now a double trail of heavy footprints trailed away from the shed; clear as the glint of a distant mirror. Batman ran after the trail, his sense of justice burning in rage at the London police service's trump card. Their white knight. Sherlock Holmes.

A few grams of plastic explosive wedged in the lock of the heavy steel gate was all John Watson needed to blow the lock, the sizeable bang sounding like a minute pop to the distant orphans. Their future replacements. The two walked calmly to the entrance, another globule of explosives opening the grand wooded double doors. The sharper residents might hear that, yet Sherlock was unfazed. The floor plan was memorized the night before by Watson so for once he led the way through the darkened corridors.

"This way" John exclaimed as Holmes took a left turn into a hallway.

"I beg to differ" Sherlock countered, doubling back, "When have I ever been wrong?"

"The map clearly states that the main hall is at the end on the west..." Watson trailed off as he noticed where Sherlock's finger was pointing: "Main Hall", a faint oak sign read, with an arrow of white tape pointing to the wide corridor along which Holmes was now halfway. Watson heaved a deep sigh, and submitted to his superior intellect. He silently wished that the man would get surpassed, and quickly. He was surprised Holmes' ego would fit in the hall where their plans would culminate.

The generic looking, year-old Volvo revved along the outskirts of London to the orphanage. Screeching to a halt half a road away, barely out of earshot, L and his father figure clambered out of the door.

"The camera was removed." L stated matter-of-factly, swivelling the laptop screen around to show Watari. "He knows we're coming. This is all a game to him. He's waiting." The screen showed a bland signpost, the sort one would find around any school. Underneath the tape; scrawled in a barely legible handwriting; next to a childish sideways emoticon; lay the most disturbing message of all:

"Lucas Lawliet"

"Oh my God," Watari whispered, "he knows. He must have found the files."

"Files?" L inquired.

"Every orphan. Every gifted child. I keep their identity safe. They all use aliases, even to each other. I have their identity papers hidden in the office above. This could ruin everything. Everything I've worked for..."

"Damn him! We cannot let this happen! We will not let Holmes win! Watari... begin the Yotsuba Initiative."

They ran to the orphanage. L led the way, going ahead to the hall alone. The interior held no long-suppressed nostalgia for him this year. He had to stop the rival detective. He noticed a figure running in ahead. L suppressed the urge to scream out, following the silhouette's footsteps and matching its speed. Getting to the hall he had not visited for years, he unleashed a spinning kick at the figure in the centre, who seemed disoriented in the area. It was too slow, as L's ankle was gripped with a lightning-quick reaction and hurled across the room. The figure surged at L with a violent punch but was blocked and countered with a futile punch to Kevlar chest plating. The figure seemed to notice L's face in the dim moonlight, and L immediately recognised the unmistakeable logo and ears of Batman himself. Too professional to avoid a greeting, they both looked around for their common enemy.

"Excellent work," following the sound, a man came faintly into view, breaking the silence with sarcastic applause, "two weeks? Really? You'd think with the second and third best detectives on the planet both working on it you'd be finished sooner." Batman seemed to fly at Sherlock from several directions at once, and abruptly halted at the crescendo of clicks from a plastic device, crackling white light flowing along the coils towards the face of Batman. The taser in Watson's shivering grip brought the hero down instantly. L cried out, attempting to reason.

"I understand why you do this Sherlock. You get bored. Your condition is serious. You need medical help. But John, you were in the army. You were a doctor, healing people. Why change so much?"

"A combination of susceptibility from a mixture of extreme tiredness and a compound I administered which I like to call Teflam C." Holmes explained. "It basically makes you relive old times. The sleep deprivation I put him through with lengthy write-ups of my escapades made him almost unable to distinguish dreams with reality; and the C variety simply puts you in the same state of mind that you were in between two and four years ago: Perfect obedience in the army. I simply set myself up as his superior and now he's basically my slave. You think I actually care if people read some text about me on the internet?" He spat the words maliciously. At this, L whipped out a gun strapped to his thigh under the baggy blue trousers.

"I don't care about this sick game. This ends now!" He yelled, aiming it towards the man across the hall, and a shot rang out. The barely visible man ahead of him shattered into hundreds of razor-sharp pieces.

"I anticipated you would attempt to shoot me and spare any more lives," Sherlock said steadily, "that's why for the last few minutes you were talking to a mirror in from of a speaker!" Out of the shadows, a figure leapt behind L, brandishing a length of wire between a microphone and transmitter.

"I anticipated this also; which is why I attached a small razor to my thumb nail." L sliced through the deadly string of plastic, hopping forwards.

"Of course," Holmes said, "I knew you would never really attempt to kill a man personally, why else would I have anticipated your actions, and now be holding your companion hostage." A gargling, exhausted voice attempted to interrupt, but Sherlock went on: "While you were speaking to your reflection me and my portable microphone found this man outside; I assume you know him?"

L opened his mouth to speak, but Watari interjected at last, his voice resonating in a soft, authoritative tone. "I anticipated you would be locked in a battle of words; so I began the Yotsuba Initiative. Lucas Lawliet smirked, and before Sherlock could ask what it was, all was explained. A shower of laser sights fell upon the consulting detective and a few on Watson. A flow of armed orphans, no more than 12 or 13 in age, gradually filled the hall, and the two genius antagonists bent to the floor in defeat.


End file.
